


His Second Chance(Johnlock)

by cant_deny_the_johnlock_ship



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:49:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cant_deny_the_johnlock_ship/pseuds/cant_deny_the_johnlock_ship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary's death, John feels completely helpless. With the birth of his daughter, still unsure if she's even going to survive, he realizes he can't handle this by himself. He turns to the only person he truly trusts-Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock gladly takes him in, doing all he can to make his only friend feel at home. What was suppose to be a one-time visit, turns into John moving back in with Sherlock. Even though they lived together before, this time its different. At John's wedding, feelings were subtly revealed. Now, living together once again, with those feelings laid out on the table, its almost difficult to ignore them.(WORK IN PROGRESS)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John staggered forward, trying to keep up with the doctors and nurses pushing Mary’s hospital bed down a seemingly long hallway. Mary looked like she was falling asleep; her head lolling from side to side, her eyes barely open. She was deathly pale by now, her breathing low and slow.

“What’s happening?” John demanded, staying close by her side, taking her limp hand in his.

One of the nurses gave him a weary look. “The baby, she doesn’t want to come out. Your wife is bleeding internally, it’s suffocating her. We need to get the baby out immediately.”

John looked down at Mary, horror stricken. “What about my wife?”

The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry, we don’t know right now.” They suddenly pushed the hospital bed into another room, one he recognized all too clearly, the same nurse gently placing a hand on John’s chest to keep him from entering. “I’m sorry sir, you’re going to have to wait outside.”

With that, the nurse disappeared into the room, the double doors closing behind her.

\----

Sherlock was playing a tune on his violin when he heard the faint buzz of his phone, muffled by the couch cushions. He had thrown his phone onto the couch when he saw no text messages indicating a case moments ago, grabbing his violin from its case and hoisting it under his chin, the bow already in his other hand, ready to play.

He ignored the continued buzzing, too lost in his music. Whatever it was, it had to wait. He was composing.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his door. He groaned inwardly. The door opened a crack and without having to turn around, Sherlock knew exactly who it was.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to making sure the other person could hear him speak. “Busy.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson started, her voice small.

Sherlock turned fully around, setting his violin in its case while whipping its bow in front of him, gesturing for her to leave.

“But Sherlock-“

“Mrs. Hudson, I said I was-“

“Its John.”

The words died on his lips. John? He hadn’t spoken to him in ages. Was he the one who called him? Obviously. But why call Mrs. Hudson? Something important apparently. Sherlock glanced at the clock. Just after one o’clock in the morning. Something felt wrong. John wouldn’t call this late at night, definitely wouldn’t have called Mrs. Hudson when he didn’t pick up, not unless something was wrong.

Sherlock set the bow on top of his violin and gingerly took the phone from Mrs. Hudson. She gave him a pained expression and brought both her hands close to her chest. He pressed the phone close to his ear, glancing once to Mrs. Hudson.

“John?”

“She’s dead.”

His words were firm. Not shaken or wobbly. Sherlock could tell by the way he said it that he was clenching his jaw.

Sherlock knew of only one thing he could do at this moment. “Where are you?” he asked, already reaching for his coat on the hanger.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock walked into the building, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of John. It took him only seconds to realize where he would be, already stepping out of the elevator shaft to find his friend. After walking around aimlessly, he finally found what he was looking for. He saw him, standing tall, his hands in his pockets, staring through a window among others that gave a view to the room behind it. He slowly walked up to him, stopping to stand beside him, looking into the room as well.

  
“Which one is she?” Sherlock asked.

  
John wasn’t even startled by his sudden appearance. He was use to him by now. He swallowed before answering, “She’s over by the blue wall, to the left.”

Sherlock moved his gaze accordingly, settling on an incubator holding a small baby. He couldn’t see much from where he was standing but he could tell the baby was ill, too small to be able to breath on its own yet. She wasn’t fully developed either, judging by her weight and size.

  
John had told him what had happened, though he only knew the basics, since John was too grief-stricken to elaborate. Mary got contractions late at night; John took her to the hospital. They were hoping it was a false alarm considering that she was only 6 months pregnant. Mary was ready to give birth but the baby wasn’t cooperating. She suddenly became ill, she was bleeding internally, and they had to rush her to surgery. They had to perform a c-section but by the time they were able to get the baby out safely, Mary had lost too much blood. She died seconds after giving birth.

  
John looked away from the window and settled his gaze on the floor. “Did you call a taxi?” he asked softly.

  
“Yes, as you requested.” Sherlock replied, staring at his only friend. He didn’t know how to comfort him, though he badly wanted to. He settled for doing as he asked, making sure he got what he wanted, what he needed at this moment.

  
John glanced back at the newborn, then looked at Sherlock for the first time since he’s arrived. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice tight and full of emotion. He had red rimming his eyes, the corners of his mouth pointing downward as if permanently. Sherlock held his gaze, waited patiently for him to continue. “I just can’t stay in this hospital. Knowing Mary…” he chocked on his sob and he dropped his gaze, his fist coming up to cover his mouth and his eyes shutting tightly.

  
Sherlock couldn’t stand seeing John this way. Knowing how much pain he was in, not knowing how to comfort him. He reached out to him, gently touching his arm and John did the rest. He came forward, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and stifled another sob. Sherlock stood still for a moment, in surprise but also relieved. He no longer had to watch John falling apart in front of him, a complete outsider to his own friend’s pain, he now was a part of it. He gingerly wrapped his arms around his waist, careful not squeeze too hard but enough for John to feel his presence.

  
Sherlock could almost hear him clenching his jaw, holding back his sobs and his tears. One escaped and Sherlock could feel it sliding down John’s face where his cheek met Sherlock’s. Sherlock whispered very carefully, audible to John’s ears only. “Let’s go home.”


	3. Chapter 3

John said he wanted to stop by his house in order to get some of his things but Sherlock knew he didn’t want to. He said it was fine, that he had left a few things at 221B (probably in such a hurry to leave after Sherlock ‘suicide’ he forgot a few things).

“I don’t have any sleepwear.” John mumbled.

Sherlock looked over at his friend as they got into the taxi and the driver asked them where they were headed. While still looking at John, Sherlock replied by saying, “221B Baker Street.”

John turned to Sherlock, his eyebrows scrunched, his gaze questioning.

“You can borrow some of my clothes. Then tomorrow morning we will go to your house to pick up the rest of your belongings.”

John kept on staring at him, his mouth slightly hanging open, as if to protest. He shut it, gave him a slight nod, and then turned back around to face the window. Before he did, Sherlock caught a glimpse of his expression, a slight curve of his mouth. It was the closest he had gotten to a smile, but Sherlock knew it wasn’t only that. He was grateful. His slight smile, one that only Sherlock would have noticed, had told him more than he would really hear him say: Thank you. For understanding. For not judging. For not asking too many questions.

The taxi ride was short and brief, with both of them not saying anything, just enjoying each other’s company. Once the taxi stopped outside 221B, Sherlock handed the driver a couple of bills and got out. He held the door for John and patiently waited for him to step out before shutting it behind him. Then he did the same for him at the door. John walked up the steps almost in slow motion. If this were anyone else, Sherlock would have gotten irritated and told them to walk faster. But this was John. John, who was in so much pain, a pain Sherlock only experienced once (the loss of his dog, Redbeard) when he was a little boy. But he remembered it vividly: the hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, the dizziness that always seemed to linger, the constant battle to keep your self together, to hold back the tears and cries threatening to escape.

He knew John was holding onto the bit of self-control he had in him. Sherlock didn’t rush him; let him take his time, and patiently waited behind him. Once they entered the flat, it was almost like any other day back when it was only the two of them. Sherlock winced. It _was_ only the two of them now. They both took off their coats at the same time and hanged them on the hanger.

John looked around the living room, his gaze lingering on the chair that was once his. Still his. “You brought it back?” he asked.

“I never moved it.” Sherlock replied honestly. After he placed it back, he never moved it again. It wasn’t that he thought John would return, but the mere sight of it was enough to fill the void that formed when John left. It wasn’t John, but it was a part of him.

John slowly walked up to it, ran his hand over the texture of the armrest, and turned around to face Sherlock. “My room…?”

“Just the way you left it.” Sherlock gave him a small smile.

John didn’t return it. Sherlock turned as if to head to his bedroom, but John suddenly said, “Wait.”

Sherlock turned around almost immediately. He looked at him, held his eyes. _Anything. Just tell me what you want. I will give it to you._

John licked his lips, trying to find the right words. “Just-“ he broke off, his voice slightly breaking and it was killing Sherlock. _Please, just tell me what you need. Tell me so I can take away your pain._

“Please stay.” He finally said.

Sherlock swallowed. Of course he would stay. But he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to comfort John. Afraid he would break down again and not have the knowledge it took to help his friend. He walked over to where his violin laid, took it steadily in his hand, bow poised and started to play. Sherlock heard John shuffling his feet for a second, before sitting on his familiar chair. Sherlock turned his head a bit to catch a glimpse of John. He was seated with his back fully leaning against the chair, his shoulders slumped, his arms resting on the sides of the chair. One of his arms was bent, his fisted hand resting against his lips and his eyes- _Oh_ , he was looking at him.

“Keep playing,” he said. “It sounds beautiful.”

John had never described his music as beautiful before but Sherlock knew he enjoyed his playing. Whenever he played, whether it was early morning, late evening or even past midnight, John would always sit close to where Sherlock was playing and just listen. Sherlock knew this because he never had anything with him when he did so. Sometimes a cup of tea, but nothing else. He would just sit there. While Sherlock played for countless hours.

He ran the bow across the strings of the violin, shutting his eyes to concentrate and hearing the sounds radiating from it. Sometime during his playing, Sherlock heard the softest of snores. He stopped playing and turned around. John hadn’t moved except for his head, which now rested on his closed fist. Sherlock smiled to himself, put down his violin and bow, and went over to him.

He knelt down in front of him, softly shaking his shoulder. “John?” he whispered.

John’s eyes slowly opened, blinking away sleep, murmuring an “Mm?”

“You should probably go to bed.”

  
He straightened up, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”

Sherlock looked over at the clock. “4:30.” John groaned, trying to stand up. Sherlock stood and helped him, placing a gentle hand on his back as John stood. “You can take my room, its closer.”

John shook his head.

“I insist,” Sherlock said firmly, leading John to his bedroom. John was too tired to protest. Once they entered Sherlock’s room, Sherlock grabbed a shirt and pajama bottoms and handed them to John. “You can wear these.”

John muttered, “Thanks,” before seating himself on the edge of the bed. He looked tired, not just from lack of sleep, but from everything else.

“You alright?” Sherlock knew it was a stupid question right after the words left his lips.

Nonetheless, John nodded and sighed. “I just need some sleep.”

Sherlock nodded. “See you in the morning?”

John looked up at him, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for the first time today, he smiled. “Yea.”

Sherlock returned it, bowing his head before stepping out of the room. He closed the door behind him, waited a few minutes until he heard John snoring lightly, then started up the stairs to John’s room.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stirred in his bed, finally giving up on sleep and flinging the sheets off him. He forced his sleep-deprived body into a sitting position, his feet hitting the soft material of his button-up shirt he had removed only minutes earlier.

He looked at the clock on the bedside table: 5:04 a.m.

He groaned and rubbed his tired eyes. He looked around the room, John’s room. He had never been in here before, he felt like a foreigner on sacred ground. There wasn’t much here (John probably took most of his belongings with him). The walls were bare. Drawers empty. The closet door was slid open, revealing a couple of John’s jumpers. Some of the hangers were on the floor. John most likely grabbed whatever he could get and shoved it all in a bag, not caring enough to pick up the ones he dropped.

Sherlock felt a sudden sorrow for John. He had gone through the loss of someone close to him twice already, one being Sherlock’s fault. He didn’t know how many times he would feel the need to say sorry or how many times it would take for him to stop saying sorry. He wished there was more he could do for John, more than just two simple words.

After all, he had shattered his world. Let him mourn for two years. Then came back as if he had done nothing wrong. Sherlock constantly replayed the day he saw John again, John’s expression to seeing him etched into the back of his eyes. He could never forget how his eyes looked: shocked, wide-eyed, pained, relieved, then lastly, angry.

At first he didn’t think he would react in such a way, maybe been surprised but all the other emotions he presented wasn’t something Sherlock anticipated. Now, knowing exactly how his fake suicide affected him, he knew he had to make it up to him. And that no matter how hard he tried, he would never really accomplish that task. Not in his eyes.

He was sure John would forgive him, he did so during the bomb incident, but it wouldn’t change the fact of what Sherlock did. Sherlock constantly felt guilty, trying every which way to make up for it.

Sherlock suddenly heard a faint, muffled sound. He tilted his head to try and find the source of it, standing up and looking around the room. He heard a soft cry, followed by the ruffle of what sounded like bed sheets. He knelt down, his ear pressed against the air vent.

There was another cry, this one more loud and desperate. _John_ , Sherlock thought. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought about it before? His bed was positioned right next to the air vent, though he never heard John before when they lived together.

Sherlock quickly walked to the door, threw it open and padded down the flight of stairs. Once he made it to his room, he stopped, pressed his ear against the door. Sure enough, John was stirring in his sleep, mumbling things Sherlock couldn’t make out. He stood outside his room for a second, unsure of what to do next. Should he go in? Should he ignore it? Of course not. John was having a nightmare, one Sherlock could guess what it was about. He couldn’t just go back to his room and pretend he didn’t hear anything.

He gently took a hold of the knob, turned it and quietly opened the door. He stepped into the room slowly, careful not to make too much noise, and shut the door behind him. John was lying with his arms extended on either side of his face, one of his legs extended, the other slightly bent. The bed sheets were all over the place, some halfway off the bed, others tangled around his legs.

Sherlock watched as he fidgeted, his face constricting, his limbs twitching slightly. He stood in the middle of the room, unable to move. He suddenly realized he was shirtless and vaguely felt uncomfortable. He cautiously walked up to the bed, careful not to wake John and tentatively sat at the foot of it.

John’s eyebrows were pulled together, his mouth slightly opened, muttering things Sherlock could not understand. He wanted to make it stop, to stop his suffering. He couldn’t stand to see John, gentle and caring John, be in so much pain. He scooted more towards him, leaning over and taking a hold of his shoulder. He shook it a few times, whispering his name as he did so.

“John, wake up.” He whispered, now taking both of his shoulders in his hands and shaking him awake.

John’s eyes snapped open at the same time he grabbed a hold of Sherlock’s shoulders, gripping them so hard it almost hurt. When he saw Sherlock’s face, he slowly let go. He fell back down on the bed, his arm draped over his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “Sorry.”

Sherlock pulled away, sitting close to the edge of the bed, giving John some space. He was breathing rapidly, as if coming back from a jog, his chest rising and falling.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

John’s mouth suddenly closed, his lips tight, and he began to sob. _Oh, god. No._ Sherlock felt his stomach drop. 

“John,” he pleaded _. Please be okay. Please._

He tilted his head, angling his body away from Sherlock. His cries racked his body and he struggled to hold them back. Sherlock reached out to him, removed the arm draped over his eyes to reveal the tears beneath. John jerked his head away from him, sitting up abruptly, his back facing Sherlock.

He wiped his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said over his shoulder.

Sherlock suddenly got up from the bed, walked around it and sat next to John. Not too close, but close enough. John gave him a glance. Sherlock placed his hands on his lap, looked over at John with a sincere smile and began speaking.

“I wasn’t much of a people person when I was a kid. I didn’t have any friends, not one. They all thought I was weird, some even called me a freak.” His mouth curved slightly, his gaze trailing off into nothingness. “My father came home one day with a puppy, I didn’t know what breed at the time. I named him Redbeard. His fur was red and he looked like he was sporting a beard.” He shrugged. “Everyday I would wait until I could finally come home and see him. Everyday he waited just outside the house, lifting his head up and wagging his tail when he saw me. I thought, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look that happy to see me’” Sherlock smiled to himself. “We played all day, outside in the backyard. I would talk to him, tell him about my experiments and I didn’t have to worry about being judged, looked at as if I were crazy.” A shadow passed across his face, darkening his features. “Then one day he got ill. Some disease, I don’t remember which. He was dying, they told me. He was in pain, everyday. I watched him limp around the house, as if that mere act took every ounce of strength in him. We wouldn’t play anymore, he was so weak. My parents gave me an option, one my ten-year-old mind couldn’t fathom. How could I do that? He was my best friend. My only friend.”

Sherlock eyebrows scrunched, his expression pained. John had never seen him so upset.

“As the days wore on, he got weaker. He couldn’t even walk anymore. I had to bring his food to him.” Sherlock’s eyes shone. “One day, he looked at me. His eyes bore into me, projecting all the sadness and pain he was enduring. I couldn’t let him continue living like this.” He paused, retreating into his memories. “I gave him his last meal that day, watched as they struck the needle into his skin, and as his eyes began to close.”

To John’s surprise, a tear fell down Sherlock’s face. Sherlock wiped it away abruptly, getting up from the bed. “I’m going to make some tea, want any?” he asked, his back facing John, already headed to the door.

John was too stunned to form a coherent sentence. He cleared his throat and somehow managed a “Sure.”

With that, Sherlock walked out of the room, his shoulders slightly slumped. John saw a crease forming between his eyebrows before the door shut behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

After dressing, John cautiously walked out of Sherlock’s room, gently closing the door behind him. He could hear Sherlock shuffling around in the kitchen and occasionally saw him pass by the entrance.

John didn’t know how to approach the subject, so he instead decided to let it go. If Sherlock wanted to talk more about it, he would. Given the fact that he practically ran out of the room the second he showed emotion obviously meant he didn’t.

Sherlock suddenly came out holding a tray full of teacups and a teapot. He didn’t look at John when he passed him, merely set down the tray on the table next to John’s chair and started pouring the tea into two cups.

“Sherlock,” John started.

“Mm?” he replied, dropping two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea.

“About this morning-“

“Don’t worry about it, John.”

Sherlock’s tone of voice made John shut up real quick. He looked up at John, handing him his tea. John took it without another word, feeling the familiar texture of the cup and the aroma filling his nostrils.

He blew on it and took a few sips before sitting on his familiar chair. Sherlock sat opposite him, sipping his tea.

“Mary’s funeral’s next week,” John said into the silence.

Sherlock froze, cup halfway up to his mouth. He set it down, crossed his lanky legs and steepled his hands under his chin. He didn’t look at John.

Waiting on a reply he was not going to get, John continued. “Will you come?”

Finally Sherlock looked up, set his eyes on John. “Of course I will.”

John nodded, took another sip of his tea while his eyes wandered down Sherlock’s face and settled on his chest. He had been meaning to ask him why he was shirtless, though he didn’t know how to bring it up in conversation. One of John’s eyebrows rose, watching as Sherlock’s pale chest rose and fell. His eyes lingered there for a bit longer until John caught himself and looked away, taking another sip of his tea.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He looked down at his watch and placed both arms on the sides of the chair. “We planned on going to your house to get your things but,” he looked over John, head to toe, “judging by the way your dressed, your hair combed,” he waved his hand as if for emphasis, “the hint of cologne, I’m guessing you’re going somewhere else as well.”

John sat back, not even surprised by Sherlock’s deduction. Though, as always, he was impressed. “Yes, I want to visit the baby.”

Sherlock raised his chin. “Your daughter.”

John swallowed. _My daughter. I’m a father._ “Yes.”

Sherlock stood, looking down at his exposed chest as if barely realizing he was shirtless. “Well, I’ll go and get dressed then. We should be leaving soon.”

John cleared his throat, set down his empty cup and got up as well. “Actually…” he let the word linger between them.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, a flash of hurt crossed his face for a second before it vanished completely and he said, “You want to go alone.” It wasn’t a question, more like a statement.

John held his gaze and gave a slight nod. Sherlock put his hands on his hips and looked down at the ground, shuffling his feet. “Of course you do.”

“I’ll be back, 20 minutes top.”

Sherlock nodded, still not looking at John. John glanced at him before he walked across the room to retrieve his jacket, slipping it on. He opened the door as he watched Sherlock retreat into his room without another word.

……..

John stared out into the open room before him, a thin glass the only thing separating him from his daughter. The doctors had told him that she hadn’t improved; they believed she was going to have to stay at the hospital for longer than they predicted. How long, they weren’t sure. But the odds weren’t looking too good.

John didn’t know how to react. Maybe it was better she stay here, where there were nurses taking care of her. John didn’t know how to take care of a baby; he didn’t even know how to change a diaper. Mary was supposed to teach him, promising she would help him as soon as the baby was born.

The thought of Mary made John’s head spin, his stomach to swirl uncomfortably, his eyes to sting. He swallowed hard and blinked away the tears. He looked at his daughter through the glass and smiled. Even though Mary was gone, there was still a piece of her here, with John. As much as he hated what happened to her, he still had something to be grateful for.

John suddenly realized they hadn’t named her. Mary insisted they name her exactly when she was born, so they hadn’t thought of any names ahead of time. John racked his brain for a possible name but he couldn’t think of one. All the names he thought of were too ordinary or dull; his daughter deserved something better, unique, thought of.

John’s phone suddenly buzzed, vibrating against his leg. He retrieved it and looked at the message.

_How is she?_

_-SH_

John smiled to himself. He quickly typed back a response and pushed send.

_She’s okay. Doctors think she needs to stay in the hospital for a little while more._

_-JW_

Another buzz.

_Doctors, what do they know?_

_-SH_

John frowned and before he could reply, his phone buzzed again.

_No offense._

_-SH_

John rolled his eyes and smiled. He looked at his daughter once more before turning around and heading home.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock awoke, startled. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock: 5:20 a.m.

He threw the bed sheets off himself, slipped on his robe and exited his room. He walked up the stairs, entered John’s room and sat at the foot of his bed.

He watched as John stirred, just like he did every night since he arrived. This time, the bed sheets were on the floor to his left. His body was sprawled on the bed and he violently started to move around, his arms gripping the mattress, his legs kicking.

Sherlock looked at him in horror before getting up and walking around the bed. He knelt down, grabbed John’s face and yelled, “John!”

John’s eyes snapped open, gasping for breath, his eyes set on Sherlock. He suddenly touched Sherlock’s hand, the one holding his face, and said, “I thought…”

Sherlock searched his face. “You thought what?”

“I thought I lost you,” John replied hoarsely. He gripped Sherlock’s hand. “Again.”

Sherlock felt his heart drop down into his stomach. He swallowed hard, unsure of what to say, holding John’s gaze. Before he knew what he was doing, he knelt down and placed his forehead against John’s. John shut his eyes and sighed in relief.

“I’m right here,” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded, holding back tears. They stayed like that for a few seconds more before Sherlock slowly removed himself, keeping his eyes fixed on John. John’s eyes were still closed, but his breathing returned to normal, he seemed okay.

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock smiled lightly and said, “Alright?”

John nodded.

“I’ll start the kettle,” Sherlock said, before exiting the room and disappearing into the kitchen.

It was now a routine. John would have a nightmare, Sherlock would get up in the early hours of morning and wake him up, reassure him that everything was okay, that he was okay. Though both of them knew that was rubbish, it still helped ease John’s troubled mind. After both were fully awake, Sherlock would make them tea. Then they would sit in their chairs and sip it silently. Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes about Mary. Sometimes about John’s daughter. Sometimes about everything else.

Sherlock enjoyed this routine. Not the nightmare part, he would do anything to get rid of John’s nightmares, but the part that made them closer, more united. He knew he wasn’t an affectionate person, someone to go to talk about your problems or for a simple hug. Yet, he felt he somehow was helping John, in his own way. Just by being there when he needed him the most.

John came out of his room just as Sherlock was setting the tray on the table next to John’s chair. He padded down the stairs and took his spot on his chair, accepting the cup of tea Sherlock handed him. Sherlock grabbed his own and sat across from him on his leather chair.

Sherlock sipped his tea, and then set it down on the saucer. “Your nightmares,” he started, “they’re getting more violent.”

John also set down his cup of tea and crossed his legs, set his interlaced hands on his knees. “I suppose so.”

Sherlock watched him but John wasn’t really looking at him. “I know you don’t like talking about them, John, but I think it might help.”

Now John looked at him. He squinted his eyes, leaned forward a bit. “Help? I don’t see how reliving them is of any help to me.”

His voice was harsh but Sherlock knew he was more afraid than angry. “I understand that but-“

John suddenly stood up, shaking his head. “The answer is no.”

Sherlock stood up also, his eyes fixed on John’s. “I am only trying to help you, John. Those nightmares aren’t going to go away. You can’t just pretend they don’t exist.”

John’s hands were balled into fists at his sides and he was clenching his jaw. He glared at Sherlock and even though Sherlock was significantly taller than him, John still towered over him. “I have to live with those nightmares everyday. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a good night’s sleep.” He suddenly leaned forward, only inches away from Sherlock. “If I want to forget about them for a little while before having to relive them again, I will.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and John took his silence as defeat, sitting back down on his chair. Sherlock sat back down a few moments later, placing his arms on either side of his chair. “If you insist.”

John merely took his cup of tea and took a sip.

“But,” Sherlock let the word linger.

John looked up from his cup and glared at him.

Sherlock’s eyes wandered around the room, clearly avoiding John’s eyes. “You are of danger to yourself, John. I don’t think its safe letting you go on experiencing your nightmares without supervision.”

“What are you suggesting?” John demanded, getting straight to the point.

Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. “I think the best solution is for me to spend the night in your room.”

To this, John’s eyebrows went up.

Sherlock quickly went on: “Its only for the night, I will sleep on the floor. You won’t even notice I am there.”

When John didn’t reply, Sherlock kept on talking. “It won’t be much of a difference to the arrangement we already have, I just won’t have to get up in the morning and walk to your room, I will already be in it.”

John thought it over, clearly avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. He turned to look at him and said, “I guess it won’t be much of a difference. But, I don’t feel comfortable with you sleeping on the floor.”

Sherlock waved his hand in the air. “I’ll be fine, I’ll bring extra blankets. Besides, I hardly sleep all that much, you know that.”

John eyed him before nodding his head once. “Alright, if you insist.”

Sherlock took his cup in his hand, took a sip of his tea, subconsciously avoiding eye contact with John.


	7. Chapter 7

“What is all this?” Sherlock asked, lifting up one of Mary’s shirts with a finger to examine it up close.

“Mary’s belongings,” John stated.

They were in John’s room. It was almost eleven O’clock. John was tired, Sherlock was not. But he came anyway, not having anything else to do besides play his violin which he did almost all day already. He had a book tucked underneath his arm, while the other was lifted, his hand holding the shirt.

“Why are they here?” Sherlock said more quietly, putting it down gently as if it was delicate.

John looked around his room, which was now cluttered with most of Mary’s belongings. “I didn’t know what to do with them.”

Sherlock looked at him, his gaze questioning but the answer almost instantly arouse. “She doesn’t have any close relatives or friends.”

John nodded, sighing. “The only friend I could think of was Janine.”

Sherlock groaned, clearly showing his distaste.

“But I didn’t think she was worthy enough.” John continued.

Sherlock looked about the room. “Why not give it to charity?”

John shrugged. “I was thinking about it. I don’t want to give it all away though, I want to save some stuff for Sherry.”

Sherlock wheeled around, his eyebrows rose. “Sherry?”

John nodded. “My daughter.”

“You’ve come up with a name,” Sherlock stated.

John nodded, his cheeks going slightly red. “I wanted to name her after the two people who mean the most to me.”

Sherlock suddenly understood and he himself felt his heart speed up a bit. “Mary and I.”

John glanced at him. “I didn’t know what to name her. I wanted her name to be special, to mean something. I just took the beginning of your name and the ending of Mary’s.” A smile tugged at his lips. “What do you think?”

Sherlock was speechless. _What do I think? You named your daughter after me? Partially, but even that is completely unfathomable. How much grief have I placed upon you? I am completely and utterly rude to you on a day-to-day basis. I am arrogant, selfish, and emotionless to say the least. And yet, here you are. You still talk to me even after I let you believe I was dead and let you grieve for two years. You even called me your_ best friend _. And then this. How much can you possibly do for me, John? How much until it’s just too much? It’s never too much coming for you. Nothing will ever be too much if it has to do with you._

Sherlock swallowed, silencing his thoughts for a second. “Its beautiful,” he said and he meant it.

John smiled in approval, then set his eyes on the ground. “You didn’t bring any blankets?”

Sherlock suddenly looked around himself. “It looks like I forgot.” He set down his book and walked toward the door. “I’ll go get them.”

John, who was already seated on his bed, called out to him. “Sherlock, wait. You already walked all the way up here; you don’t have to go down again. Its late, you can sleep on my bed.”

Sherlock stood frozen by the door. He stuttered, cursing himself for doing it, and said, “With you?”

John tried to keep his cool as he gave a slight nod. “Yes, the bed is big enough for the both of us.”

Sherlock’s gaze trailed upwards, staring at nothingness as he contemplated what to say.

John chuckled lightly, trying to relive some of the tension in the air. “What? Are you afraid I’ll kick you in my sleep?”

Sherlock looked at John and laughed. John was probably one of the few people who ever saw Sherlock laugh sincerely. Maybe even the only. The corners of his mouth drew up and his eyes crinkled at the edges when he did so. “Of course not.”

“Then?” John challenged.

Sherlock looked at him a second, his eyes fixed on his, his cheeks burning slightly. He willed his heart to stop beating so hard and slowly shut the door.


	8. Chapter 8

They talked for a couple minutes before John began dozing off. Sherlock was on the floor, John sitting on the bed.

“You should go to sleep, John. You’re barely able to form a coherent sentence.”

John nodded sleepily. “I’ll see you in the morning, don’t stay up too late.”

Sherlock offered him a smile, propped open his book and began reading. John lay down, pulled the covers over himself and closed his eyes. Within minutes, John was fast asleep. Sherlock looked up from his book when he heard his snoring, smiling to himself. He then looked over at the clock: 1:34 a.m.

He felt completely exhausted, but he knew that if he tried to go to sleep he would only be wasting his time. So instead, he spread out his legs, his bare feet sticking out in front of him, and propped the book on his knees. On occasion, he glanced up to see John’s sleeping form. He’s never really seen John sleep, besides when he has nightmares, and he was incredibly curious.

   
Sherlock suddenly stood up, setting the book face down on John’s dresser, and walked over to where John laid. He stood there for a second, just looking down at John. He was peacefully asleep, his eye lashes slightly fluttering, and his eyes moving back and fourth in REM sleep. He had the sheets pulled up to just over his waist; his arms sprawled on both sides of his face, his head resting on the pillow. One of his hands was closed in a relaxed fist, the other hand’s fingers spread apart.

Sherlock felt odd standing so he sat down, gazing up at John’s face. He spent what seemed like minutes studying his face, the way it shifted in sleep, the different emotions that passed across it. He hardly noticed that John had changed positions, this time lying on his side, his hands tucked underneath his cheek. As if he was looking at Sherlock too.

Sherlock watched as John’s eyebrows came together, his jaw tightening, muscles in his hands and arms clenching. _A nightmare?_ Sherlock looked back at the clock and was surprised to see it was already 3:42 a.m. John suddenly shifted, throwing himself back onto his back, murmuring things Sherlock couldn’t hear.

It was always things Sherlock couldn’t hear. It frustrated him since John wasn’t willing to tell him about his nightmares, what he said in his sleep would surely let Sherlock know what they were about. He wondered, sitting up into a kneeling position, leaning in closer to John’s parted mouth.

Suddenly, as if sensing Sherlock’s presence, John’s eyes snapped open, hurling himself onto Sherlock. Sherlock, startled, retreated. But he wasn’t fast enough. John crashed into him, Sherlock lost his balance from the impact and they both tumbled to the floor.

Sherlock, now pinned under John, yelled, “For crying out loud, what the hell was that for?”

John, as if barely realizing where he was, looked down at Sherlock. He then looked down at himself, trying to piece together the situation. “I thought you were…”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, waiting for John to finish his sentence.

“Nothing, no one.” John finished, obviously still keeping true to his word of not talking about his nightmares. He placed both hands on the floor and pulled himself off Sherlock. Once standing, he stuck out a hand to him. “I’m sorry, that seems to be happening a lot lately.”

Sherlock took it, and as he stood up, now face to face with John, he asked, “What seems to happen a lot?”

John smirked, his tired eyes glinting. “Me attacking you.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I don’t mind, though I was not expecting it that time.”

John put on a fake surprised face. “I gave the famous Sherlock Holmes a fright?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stifled a yawn, using his hand to cover his mouth.

John looked over at the clock and groaned. “Its way too early for tea.”

Sherlock nodded, looking down at the disheveled bed.

John looked him over, noticing his hair was still kept neat, his clothes had no signs of wrinkles, and his shoulders were slightly slumped. “You haven’t slept?”

Sherlock glanced at him, genuine surprise on his face. “How did you figure?”

John gave him a smug smile. “You’re not the only one who’s good at deductions, I’ve learned a few things.”

Sherlock smiled. “Lucky guess.”

John sat back down on the left side of the bed and pulled the covers over himself. He looked at Sherlock and patted the right side of the bed. “Come on then, you need at least some sleep to keep that big head of yours functioning.”

Sherlock pretended he didn’t hear the remark, though he felt a sudden tightness in his chest, a vague burn of his cheeks. He went toward his book, hoping John would give up trying to get him to go to sleep and just fall asleep himself. Maybe then Sherlock could slip into bed unnoticed, sleep for a few hours then wake before John did.

John sighed. “Sherlock, I know you don’t believe in sleeping or eating or any of the things humans need in order to function, but you need your rest.”

Sherlock turned around to face him, the book still in his hands. “John, if you have not noticed, I am not particularly human. Therefore, I don’t need any of those insignificant things in order to function.”

John rolled his eyes, got up from the bed, and walked toward him. Sherlock held his breath. He came up to him, took the book from his hands and set it down on the dresser. He then led Sherlock to the bed. Once there, Sherlock turned to face him with questioning eyes.

John pointed at the bed. “Sleep, now. That’s an order.”

Sherlock felt heat rise up in his cheeks, up into his ears and around his head. He felt a sudden shiver run up his spine, as if someone ran a cold finger down it. Without saying anything, he got into bed. John walked around the bed to the other side and also slipped under the covers.

The bed wasn’t so big, a little smaller than a master bed. Sherlock was practically at the edge of it, trying to put as much distance between John and himself. He didn’t necessarily know why he was doing this, or why he felt suddenly embarrassed and anxious. John noticed this. He scooted a little closer and tapped him on the shoulder. Sherlock tensed and slowly shifted to look over his shoulder at John.

“You’re going to fall off the bed, just because this is my bed doesn’t mean you’re not welcome on it.” John said softly.

Sherlock moved and lay down on his back, his hands interlaced on his stomach, his gaze looking at the ceiling. John was on his side, staring at him with amusement, his elbow propped up and his head resting on his open hand. Sherlock looked over at John without moving any other part of his body.

“What?” he demanded.

John smiled. “Nothing.”

Sherlock sat up abruptly and faced him. “Why are you staring at me John?”

He shrugged. “I just find it funny.”

Sherlock never liked guessing games, especially when he was very irritable and tired. “You find what funny?”

John sat up as well, his body angled toward Sherlock. “That you are so uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed with someone.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks burn. _Not someone. You._ He stuttered before answering: “I’m not uncomfortable, I’m just merely fidgety. That tends to happen when you haven’t slept for three days.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Three days?”

Sherlock waved him off, throwing himself back onto his side while pulling the covers over himself. “Its nothing, John,” he grumbled.

“You might be clever and all, but _I_ can tell when you’re lying.”

Sherlock stubbornly grabbed onto the covers and refused to reply.

“Sherlock,” John let the word linger between them.

“I said its nothing.” Sherlock whispered, praying that he would let it go.

John didn’t say anything for a while and Sherlock began to think he had fallen asleep. But he hadn’t moved, he was still sitting up. Sherlock finally got the nerve to flip around and sit up again. He faced him, locking eyes with him.

“What is it, John?” he demanded to know.

John didn’t look away but he didn’t answer either. He swallowed. “How long have you had this problem?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows came together and his jaw set. “I don’t _have_ a problem.”

“Sherlock,” he began as if speaking to a stubborn child, “You haven’t slept for _three_ days. And when you do sleep, its really late and you wake up really early.”

Sherlock stared back at him with questioning eyes. He was about to ask how he knew when the answer crossed his mind. _Of course, you idiot._ “You’ve heard me playing?”

John nodded. “Sometimes as late as four in the morning.”

Sherlock looked away, averting his eyes from John’s.

John scooted closer to him. “Is there a reason you can’t sleep? Is it bad dreams, insomnia?”

Sherlock was shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters, Sherlock.” John said it as though it was fact.

Sherlock looked up at him, his lips slightly opening. John was staring back at him, a determined look on his face. _Oh, John. You’re not going to let this go, are you? Of course not, I know you. You’re as stubborn as me._

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied honestly.

John pressed further. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t. I try to go to sleep but it never comes. I lay there for hours and _nothing_. So I just get up and do something.”

“You play?”

Sherlock nodded. “Sometimes until sunrise.”

“You don’t get tired?”

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. “Of course I do. I’m tired all the time.”

“But you can’t sleep,” John stated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously, that’s what this whole conversation is about.”

John ignored his rude remark and went on. “Have you tried anything, medicine, tea?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Those things don’t work, I’ve tried them all.”

John pondered this for a while before turning to Sherlock again. “When do you eventually fall asleep? I mean you have to crash at some point.”

“After three days mostly. But even then, I hardly get much sleep. I’m always awoken by bad dreams.”

John’s eyebrows rose at the mention of this. “You have nightmares too?”

Sherlock looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yes and just like you, I won’t be sharing them.”

John frowned but he couldn’t really say anything to that. He instead decided to change the subject. “Well its been three days, try to get some sleep. If you have a nightmare, I’ll be here for you.” Sherlock’s eyes searched John’s face. “Just like you’re always there for me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock awoke and felt the sudden punch of hunger. He groaned and suddenly stiffened. He felt a presence, a slight brush of someone’s foot on his leg. His sleepy mind took a while to process this information. To figure out whose foot it was. He was in John’s room. In John’s bed. _John._

He turned his head slightly and sat up abruptly. Realizing this could wake him up, Sherlock restrained the urge to jump off the bed. John was laying on his stomach, his head facing away from Sherlock, one hand over Sherlock’s chest(resting there) and his right foot slightly brushing against Sherlock’s left leg(he was after all shorter than him). Sherlock gingerly removed John’s hand and placed it by his side.

He took in a big breath of air and looked over at the clock. His eyes widened, scanning the room and settling on the window opposite the bed. It was noon! They had slept until noon! He looked over again at John’s sleeping form, his mind racing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’s slept this long. The most he’s ever gotten was five hours before being violently interrupted by a vicious dream.

He hadn’t had a nightmare, he suddenly realized. His eyes settled on John again. John hadn’t either. He would have been awoken, since Sherlock was a light sleeper. John’s foot softly brushed over Sherlock’s calf, bringing him back to reality. He focused on the feeling of it, John’s foot skimming up his leg, then down again. He didn’t know why, he had never liked any sort of affection (if you could call it that), but this simple feeling was enough to calm him. Sherlock was never calm. His brain ran 24/7, thinking and contemplating every second of every day.

Enjoying the calmness that settled over him, he lay back down and closed his eyes. Beautiful _nothingness_. Then, he heard it: the slight noises coming into Sherlock’s consciousness. Noises he normally wouldn’t notice or ultimately dismiss. John’s slow and even breathing, his incoherent murmurings, the barely audible noise his foot made when it skimmed over Sherlock’s leg, the slight ruffle of bed sheets as he moved in his sleep. Sherlock enjoyed all the seemingly unimportant noises coming from John, knowing that even though his brain should have dismissed them, a part of him wanted so badly to hear them-anything that had to do with John Watson, he was fully interested in.

John suddenly groaned, grabbing onto the sheets with both hands and propping himself up slowly. He looked to his left (where his head was positioned), then moved his head to the right to look at Sherlock. At first, there was only stunned silence. Then remembrance. He sat up fully, flipping over so his back leaned against the bedpost all the while his foot slid away from Sherlock’s calf and Sherlock felt a vague feeling of loss.

“Morning,” John yawned, stretching his arms above his head but not really looking at Sherlock directly.

“I believe the correct term is _afternoon_ , John.” Sherlock replied matter-of-fact.

John looked at him incredulously. Sherlock pointed to the clock. John’s eyes found it and he gasped. He leaned over Sherlock without really thinking and gripped the clock, staring at its blinking numbers.

“Its noon?!” he practically shouted in surprise.

Sherlock nodded. “12:15 to be exact.” He tried to hide the fact that he was holding his breath, actively aware of John’s stomach on his lap (which was causing a certain pressure Sherlock was not familiar with but reacted to accordingly), and the slight heat rising up into Sherlock’s cheeks and neck.

John, as if sensing the sudden closeness to Sherlock, slowly removed himself and sat on his side of the bed. He looked about the room, trying to make sense of this situation. They had both slept a full _9 hours_. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept for so long. He suddenly looked up at Sherlock, who was already looking at him with a sort of lazy grin on his face. A complete realization dawned on him and he knew from Sherlock’s expression that he had already figured it out.

“We didn’t have any nightmares,” John stated out loud somewhat breathless. He just couldn’t believe it. He’s been having them for _years_.

Sherlock nodded slowly, his grin spreading even wider across his face. John stared at him speechless, a chuckle escaping his lips. Sherlock’s smile broke and he flashed his teeth, unable to contain his excitement.

Without thinking, John came forward and threw his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock, stunned, froze. John pulled away quickly, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders with a big grin on his face. He saw Sherlock’s expression and let go, clearing his throat. He awkwardly threw the covers off himself and attempted to get off the bed. With John’s back to him, Sherlock regained his voice. “You ready for today?”

John looked over his shoulder, his hands flat on the bed on either side of him. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said softly.

~

The funeral was short and brief, consisting of about ten people, Sherlock and John included. Janine showed up along with Mary’s ex boyfriend and a couple of other people John couldn’t place; possibly friends from work.

They were all huddled around the coffin, which was now being slowly lowered into the ground. John and Sherlock were the only people in the front, the rest were wandering in the background. Sherlock sensed that was mainly because none of them were ever close to Mary.

As John and Sherlock watched Mary’s coffin begin descending, Sherlock glanced over at John who was standing tall and proud beside him. Even though he looked to be okay, Sherlock knew better. He saw the slight trembling of his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his eyes blinking more than usual. John didn’t notice Sherlock staring at him; he had his eyes fixed on the coffin, which was now halfway down.

Sherlock’s eyes trailed down to John’s hands, which were clenched at his sides. He looked at his own hands, mere inches from his. He glanced back up at John before slowly extending his hand, fingers outstretched until he made contact with John’s. John whipped around to face him, his face wiped clean of sadness and replaced with sudden astonishment.

Sherlock held his eyes as John’s fist suddenly unclenched and Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s and squeezed softly. John stared at him for what seemed like forever before squeezing back and offering Sherlock a grateful half smile. Sherlock gave him a curt nod and turned his attention back to Mary’s coffin which now sat at the bottom of her grave and was being covered with shovels of dirt.

John slowly let go, his fingers slightly lingering against the skin of Sherlock’s palm before settling back at his side, his fingers no longer bent but instead resting against his leg.


	10. Chapter 10

“John? John! Get up!”

John groaned and pushed Sherlock’s hand away from his shoulder but Sherlock returned it and shook him again. John gave up and opened his eyes, only to find Sherlock’s face only inches from his, his eyes wide and his lips drawn up in a goofy grin.

“Jesus Sherlock,” John said as he sat up. “You trying to give me a heart attack?” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Sherlock sat back on his side of the bed.

“Lestrade called. We have a case.”

“That’s why you woke me up at…” he looked over at the clock and groaned. “6:30 in the morning?”

“They ruled it a suicide.”

“Then what do they need you for?”

Sherlock eyebrows rose. “Really John? If they didn’t have reason to suspect something was off about it, they wouldn’t have called _me_.”

John stared at him as the pieces clicked into place. “Foul play.”

Sherlock smirked and jumped off the bed. He went over to the dresser (he had brought over some clothes from his room). He was bare-chested, like he slept most nights. As he rummaged through the drawers, John couldn’t help but notice the scars that ran from one of his shoulder blades to the other. They were random, stacking up one over another, crisscrossing each other. Sherlock never really spoke about the time he was away- what had happened.

John quietly got out of bed and walked over to him, careful not to be heard. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

He was still busying himself he didn’t notice John was right behind him, studying the scars up close. They were harsh, dark, angry; the wounds must have been deep. John brought his hand up slowly and as he made contact, Sherlock stiffened, a small gasp escaping his lips.

“John, what are you doing?” he whispered.

John’s eyes remained fixed on the scars, his fingers lightly running over them. He felt Sherlock’s body shiver involuntarily.

He withdrew his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered, “Its just…”Sherlock turned around, a slight flush to his cheeks which made John’s eyebrows come together in confusion. “You never talk about what happened to you. You know, the time you were away.”

Sherlock broke eye contact and turned around again, shuffling through his stuff. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I disagree,” John said more sternly, coming up behind Sherlock again. He ran his finger down a scar that had slightly lifted, creating a bump against Sherlock’s otherwise flawless skin.

Sherlock gasped again, this time more loudly. John felt a sudden sadness consume him, his eyes never leaving the scar. “What happened to you?” He whispered.

Sherlock gripped the dresser as he felt John’s breath against his skin. “Nothing John. Its nothing.”

“Don’t shut me out Sherlock.”

Sherlock tried to control his breathing but he was finding it difficult due to John’s body pressed up against him. He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sherlock-“

“I deserved it,” Sherlock growled.

John was taken aback from the severity of his voice. He reluctantly backed up, away from him. That didn’t last for long; John placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him to turn around to face him. Once he did, he saw the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes. In that instant, John wanted to take it away, remove his pain. His guilt. His shame.

John shook his head slowly. “No you didn’t.” Sherlock bowed his head and John reached out his hand, cupping the side of his face. Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. “You hear me? You _didn’t_ deserve this.”

His eyes shone but no tears showed. “I hurt you.”

John shook his head. “You didn’t, you didn’t know any better.”

He lightly ran his hand down his cheek and Sherlock exhaled, closing his eyes. John’s eyes trailed over Sherlock’s face. As his eyes settled on Sherlock’s eyelids, Sherlock slowly opened his. They locked eyes and for a few seconds, the world stilled. They stayed quiet for a while, neither one saying anything.

Sherlock’s lips suddenly parted as he muttered, “John-“

John shook his head, his breathing quickening as his eyes traveled down to Sherlock’s mouth. “Don’t say anything.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes were fixed on John as his hand suddenly trailed up into his hair and John’s fingers gripped the back of his head gently. John’s eyes were still fixed on Sherlock’s mouth, which was still slightly parted. He looked up suddenly, as if unsure about what exactly was going to happen next even though they both knew what they had set into motion.

Sherlock searched his face, wanted to say something but decided against it. _“Don’t say anything,”_ John’s eyes kept saying. How long they stood there, Sherlock had no idea. It could have been seconds, minutes even. To Sherlock, it felt like an eternity, his uncertainty gnawing at his insides. He wanted to pull away. Move closer. Run. Close the distance between them. John suddenly leaned forward and Sherlock practically gasped from anticipation. John heard this, his grip on Sherlock’s hair tightening. His body was mere inches from Sherlock’s, his face practically the same distance.

John suddenly sighed and started to pull away. Without thinking, Sherlock’s hand flew up and grabbed John’s arm before he could remove his hand from Sherlock’s hair. John’s eyes widened and he stood still with surprise. Sherlock withdrew his hand immediately after the act, his eyes dropping down to the floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Sherlock suddenly felt his back smack against the dresser, his head whipping up. He only had a second to realize it was John who had pushed him before John’s mouth was on his, both his hands gripping the back of his head. Sherlock placed his hands on the only place he felt appropriate-John’s waist.

John’s mouth moved feverishly against his own and Sherlock felt heat rise up from his stomach, traveling up his shoulders and neck. He wanted desperately to be closer to John even though they were already chest-to-chest. He gripped his waist and pulled him closer still. John moaned and suddenly slipped his tongue through Sherlock’s parted lips, exploring his mouth, skimming over Sherlock’s teeth.

John suddenly pulled away, enough to be able to see his face but close enough to still feel Sherlock’s lips brush against his. He opened his eyes slowly, leaning in to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“That…” he breathed. He wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes wide.

“Is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” he finished.

“You’ve done this before,” Sherlock stated.

“Not with a guy.”

Sherlock swallowed, pulling away slightly. He looked at John with an intensity John couldn’t place. A sudden realization dawned on John, and he momentarily removed himself from Sherlock.

“You’ve never…” he let the sentence hang in the air and Sherlock only stared. Of course he wouldn’t reply but he didn’t have to, John already knew.

Sherlock’s phone suddenly rang, startling them both. John moved away as Sherlock retrieved it, stepping away from John and heading to the other side of the room.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said into the receiver.

John looked down at his feet, the full weight of what they had done pressing down on him _. This was Sherlock’s first kiss. Sherlock’s first_ anything _regarding relationships._ He wasn’t even sure how he felt about it himself let alone how Sherlock felt. The only thing John was sure of was the fact that it had happened, that they both had obviously agreed to it. What came after that, he wasn’t prepared for.

“Be there in twenty,” Sherlock said, hanging up.

He strode over to the dresser again, pulling out a pair of trousers and a button up dress shirt.

“Sherlock,” John said, wanting to talk about it but not really knowing what to say.

Sherlock whipped around, clothes in hand. “Lestrade wants us at the crime scene, you coming?”

John swallowed, staring into Sherlock’s eyes. All the vulnerability had vanished from them, leaving only the flat, motionless cold stare he always possessed.

John nodded and with that, Sherlock turned around and headed out the door leaving John even more confused than what he already was.


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade led the way up the stairs of a two-story house. Sherlock was walking close behind him, John purposely staying behind.

“Mom found her this morning after coming home from a business trip. Father was at work.” Lestrade opened the door and let Sherlock and John pass.

As Sherlock strode in, latex gloves on both hands, he studied his surroundings. There was a great deal of pink, reminding him of his first case with John, and momentarily remembering what happened between them not even a few minutes before. He pushed the thought away; there was no room for distractions.

 _Pink bed sheets, pink floral pillows, pink curtains. Pink. Pink. Pink. Nothing useful yet._ His eyes found a bag that was sitting at the foot of the bed. He walked over to it, unzipping it and dumping its contents on the bed.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned. “Try to keep the crime scene intact.”

Sherlock completely ignored him, spreading out the materials so he can view them better. It consisted of books, notebooks, pencils, pens, a small brush, and make up pouch. He backed up, turning a full 360 to examine every inch of the room. _Bed was made. Curtains opened. Bag full of school supplies. Everything neat and organized._

He finally set his eyes on the girl, who was dangling from the ceiling fan, rope around her neck. She was fully dressed, wearing a gray coat buttoned up, dark denim jeans, and black combat boots.

“Got anything?” John asked.

John’s voice caused Sherlock to pause for a second. “Might need a couple more seconds.”

He looked at the corpse in front of him, studying every little detail. _Hair done. Fully dressed. Wearing make up. She was wearing her shoes. Why would someone who was going to commit suicide wear their shoes?_

He turned around, facing John and Lestrade. As he spoke, he wasn’t looking at anyone. Too lost in his thoughts, trying to piece together what had happened.

“She didn’t commit suicide,” he started.

“How do you figure?” John inquired.

Sherlock whirled around and pointed at the bed. “Look at her bag, its full of school supplies.” He then shifted and pointed at the girl. “She’s wearing nice clothes, make up and her shoes. She wouldn’t get this dressed up if she was going to end her life. No, she was planning to go to school today. Meet up with someone after school.”

“Why would she be meeting someone?”

Sherlock glanced at John with a perplexed expression. _People really don’t observe enough_. He pointed at the calendar directly behind John and as John whirled around to see it, Sherlock said, “December 15 th. David. 3:30. Not to mention his name is hearted, meaning she either liked him or they were in a relationship.”

John turned back around to face Sherlock. “Okay, maybe she changed her mind?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Look at her room. Neat, organized. Bed was made this morning. If she wanted to end her life, she wouldn’t bother with these little things.”

“What are you suggesting?” Asked Lestrade.

Sherlock looked him dead in the eye. “She was murdered, plain and simple. But it didn’t happen in this room.”

“What?”

He raked his brain. _Think. There’s something wrong with this picture_.

Both John and Lestrade stared at him in confusion.

Sherlock gave them a glance and rolled his eyes. He pointed at the rope. “The rope is slightly loose, the knot clumsily tied.”

“So?” John said.

“If you were about to hang yourself, you would make sure the rope was secure. You wouldn’t want to be hanging there until you finally choked, you would want a smooth death. Simple. Fast. No one would want to suffer in their last moments. No, this rope was tied in a hurry.”

“But how are you so sure she wasn’t murdered here?”

“Curtains,” he pointed at the window, “Wide open. Suicide is a very intimate act, she would have wanted privacy, to be isolated from the outside world.”

“Okay, who had reason to murder her?” Lestrade pressed, still not entirely convinced.

“Not sure yet, I need more evidence. When’s the autopsy?”

“We were waiting on you,” Lestrade replied.

Sherlock faced him. “Good, I’ll meet you at Bart’s then.”

With that, he strode past both of them and exited the room.


	12. Chapter 12

“Ah, Molly.” Sherlock said as he strode into the morgue, smile on his face.

“Sherlock,” She greeted. Then, as John walked in behind Sherlock: “John.”

“Molly,” John replied.

Molly turned to Sherlock again. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, haven’t got time for cases.” He glanced at John. “Been a bit preoccupied.”

John looked back at him without saying anything. Sherlock turned back around, facing the body of a corpse laid out on the tray.

Molly strode over to the other side and slowly removed the sheet covering the body. “How much do you need to see?” she asked Sherlock.

“Everything.”

Molly removed the whole sheet and Sherlock dug into his coat pocket, retrieving his magnifying glass. As Sherlock leaned in to examine the bruises around her neck, John came around the other side to view the bruises on the victim’s wrists they hadn’t seen before.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“These bruises…” John started.

Sherlock strode over to examine them up close. He leaned in closer with his magnifying glass and once he had seen enough, he snapped back up.

“She was being abused,” John stated.

Sherlock moved farther down, examining the victim’s legs. “Seems so. She has bruises on her thighs as well.”

He stood up straight, pocketing his magnifying glass and turning to face John. “The bruising on her wrists aren’t consistent to hands, they’re a different pattern. I would say handcuffs but that would result in smoother looking bruises. These bruises are jagged, most likely something rough. My bet is rope. It dug into her skin,” he said, raising one of her wrists to eye level. “There’s scabbing, meaning this happened not that long ago. Could have been yesterday. Some of the scabbing peeled off,” he said pointing to the area he was referring to, “revealing a fresh wound. She was abused often, didn’t leave her body enough time to heal itself before reopening the wounds again.”

John nodded. “The boyfriend?”

Sherlock shook his head. “She’s never reported any abuse. This had to be someone she trusted, someone that had full control over her.” Sherlock contemplated this. “Who lives at home?”

“Uh, brother, father, mother, nanny.”

Sherlock nodded.

“You think someone in the family?”

“Obviously. This had to have happened in a controlled environment. What better place than home?”

John glanced over at the girl splayed out on the tray. _How did she end up here?_

Sherlock suddenly walked over to the far end of the tray, his finger lightly running along the victim’s neck. “This pattern isn’t consistent. If she had hung herself, the bruising would be parallel to her jaw line. The bruising pattern here is completely straight, a horizontal line.”

John thought this over. “She was strangled.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, walking over to stand behind John. He put two hands on both sides of his face and pretended to be holding the rope. “Someone stood behind her, the person was slightly taller than her. If they were the same height or slightly shorter than our victim, the rope pattern would be starting from the top of her chin,” he touched John’s chin and slowly ran his finger down his neck, “and going down the jaw line since they would be pulling more downwards. If they were significantly taller, the bruising would resemble that of a hanging, starting from the bottom of her neck,” he placed his finger on John’s Adam’s apple, “and going upwards. The pattern on her neck is a complete horizontal line.” He moved away from John, walking toward the victim as John turned back around. “There’s no way she hung herself, no rope or height difference could possibly make this pattern.”

“She was murdered,” Molly chimed in.

They both whipped around to face her. Sherlock had completely forgotten she was there and by the looks of it, so did John.

Sherlock didn’t lose his rhythm. “Strangled. With the same rope the murderer used to stage her suicide.”

“But who was abusing her?” Molly asked.

“The father?” John guessed, turning to face Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. “Most likely. Could be brother, but his alibi was accounted for.”

“Wasn’t the father at work?” John asked.

“His shift starts at 9. The victim-“

“Sarah,” Molly suddenly interrupted.

Both John and Sherlock turned to face her. Molly averted her eyes and went over to pull the sheet back over the victim. She looked up at Sherlock again. “Her name was Sarah.”

Sherlock locked eyes with her a moment before turning back to John. “Sarah had school at 8:30 which means they were both in the house before that time. Brother left for school at around 8, which gave the father a full hour alone with Sarah before having to go to work. That was enough time to kill her, stage the suicide and get to work on time.”

“Okay, but you said the murder didn’t take place in her room.”

Sherlock nodded. “She was murdered in the place she was being abused, her parents room. The murder wasn’t planned, he saw an opportunity and took it.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“She was being abused for years. Why would the abuser suddenly want to kill off the victim unless something drove him to it? My bet is this: She confronted him, threatened to tell and he panicked.”

John nodded. “How did he get a hold of the rope?”

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “He probably had it stashed around, he used it often to tie her up.”

“But why would she suddenly want to tell someone about the abuse and why would she tell her abuser?”

Sherlock’s mind wandered off in thought. Suddenly, he remembered. A simple object in her bag he completely dismissed, stored into the back of his mind along with the other useless things she had in it. Seen as completely irrelevant at the time. He stared at John.

“She was pregnant.”

John inhaled.

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaimed, putting the pieces together. “There was a pregnancy test in her bag. She confronted him about the baby, _his_ baby. Told him she was going to tell because she finally had proof of the abuse. Something completely out of his control. He panicked, thought of the only solution that would silence her and get rid of all suspicion.”

John stared at him speechless before a grin spread across his face. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled as well. “Call Lestrade. Tell him we’ve got a murderer to arrest.”


	13. Chapter 13

As they strode into 221B, Sherlock having received the call from Lestrade a couple minutes ago about the arrest of the murderer, they felt relieved to have solved the case so early and still be back home for dinner.

John carried the bags up the stairs as Sherlock shut the front door behind them and followed. Once situated, they both sat at the table with their plates of food and ate. None said a word but occasionally glanced at each other.

After having finished dinner, they went over to their familiar chairs and sat opposite each other. John looked over at Sherlock as Sherlock unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt, rubbing his wrists.

Sherlock caught his gaze and stopped momentarily. They sat there staring at each other before John finally cut the silence with a loud sigh. “Are we going to talk about it or pretend it didn’t happen?”

Sherlock averted his eyes, unable to maintain eye contact. He rubbed his wrists again, his mind wandering off, trying to figure out how to proceed.

John suddenly leaned forward in his seat. “Sherlock, please. You can’t expect me to forget what happened between us.”

Sherlock shifted his gaze to look at John. He held his eyes this time. “Of course not.”

John seemed to relax a little at his words. But his determined expression remained fixed on his face. “You’re my best friend, you know that.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I probably know you better than anyone.” John continued. “But…”

Sherlock’s eyebrows came together as he leaned forward as well. “But what?”

“Well, you see…” John couldn’t really find the right words to express what he wanted to say. “Its just that…”

“What John?” Sherlock said a little impatiently, his hands gripping both sides of the chair.

“Well, you’ve never really said what your sexuality was.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, holding John’s gaze rather intensely. His features suddenly softened, something John rarely saw. It meant he was letting his guard down, opening up, and expressing his feelings. “It’s never really crossed my mind.”

To that, John paused. “You mean?”

“I don’t necessarily know.”

“You don’t know who you’re attracted to?”

“I’m attracted to you,” Sherlock said rather openly.

John’s cheeks flushed.

“What I mean to say is that before you, I wasn’t really interested in anyone-man or woman.”

John didn’t speak for a while, staring intently into Sherlock’s eyes, trying to understand what it was Sherlock was trying to say. Finally, he spoke: “But how do you not know your own sexuality?”

Sherlock cocked his head and responded smugly, “You seem to be questioning yours.”

John flushed a darker shade of pink, his jaw clenching. “This isn’t about me,” John replied defensively.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. “Isn’t it?”

“Sherlock, you are changing the subject. I need you to answer me honestly.”

Sherlock looked confused, his eyebrows coming together. “I just did.”

“You didn’t tell me whether you were straight or-“

Sherlock shut him up with an icy glare. “John, are you really asking me if I am interested in men after knowing full well what happened this morning?”

John didn’t answer. He merely fidgeted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable under Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock placed both hands on the armrests and leaned forward to stare at John intently.

“I don’t really know for certain what my sexuality is, mainly because I was never interested in anyone. All I know is that you’re the first person that I’d ever cared for so deeply that the mere thought of being away from you was too much for me to fathom. Those two years without you, not knowing if you were okay, were torture. These feelings,” he said shaking his head as if to clear it, “that I’m experiencing are new and frightening for me.” His eyes suddenly glistened. “I don’t know when it happened, I just know that when it did the rest was unpreventable. What happened this morning, that was set in stone. I always believed I would be the one to initiate it at some point when my feelings got the best of me. I never imagined that you would even be interested, let alone initiate it yourself. On the contrary, I very much believed that you were straight due to the many times you announced it and the many women you’ve dated.”

“I am and always was straight.”

Sherlock eyebrows came up and a sudden flash of hurt crossed his face before being replaced with the cold, icy demeanor he always put up to prevent his feelings from showing. “This morning then, what was that?”

“Listen, Sherlock…” he trailed off, fidgeting in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.

“If you are trying to express to me that this morning was a mistake, I suggest you save your breath,” Sherlock snapped.

John stared at him with a confused look on his face. He finally shook his head, once, twice, repeatedly. “No, Sherlock, God no. That’s not at all what I’m trying say.”

“Then?” Sherlock asked, one of his eyebrows raised in a questioning look.

John sighed and suddenly stood, walked the small expanse between them and kneeled down in front of Sherlock. Sherlock sucked in his breath at the sudden closeness. Due to Sherlock’s size, John was eye to eye with him. He held his eyes, speaking slowly and softly.

“What I’m trying to say,” John practically whispered, “is that I was always straight, I was never interested in men. I even kept telling myself that every time I thought of you. I just told myself that you were a great friend and that it was natural for me to think of you often. But then there were these instances, where I would catch myself staring at you, mainly when you were deducing. Sometimes even when you were experimenting or simply lounging around the flat. After that came the dreams.” His eyes trailed off in thought and when he looked at Sherlock again, his eyes softened. “The conversation I shared with the Woman made me come to my senses but I was too afraid to approach you. I waited and told myself day after day that I would say something, let you know how I felt but yet again fear prevented me from doing so. And then it was too late.” John’s eyes suddenly glazed over and Sherlock felt his heart stop, seeing the raw pain he had caused him, only mere inches from his face so that it was the only thing he could see. “You were gone. I mourned you for so long that after everyone else seemed to have gotten over it, I still felt the pain as fresh as the day you had jumped. No one could possibly fill this empty void inside me but you. After finally realizing you weren’t coming back, I decided to stick to the familiar and that’s when I met Mary.”

Thinking of Mary, John’s throat closed up but he fought it back. That part of his life was over, Mary was gone, and now he had a second chance. With Sherlock. He dared stretch out his hand, saw that Sherlock didn’t protest, and softly squeezed his hand. Sherlock gazed down at him, sincerity in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry John,” he said. “I didn’t know.” His voice cracked, something Sherlock’s voice never did.

John looked at him incredulously. “You didn’t know I would grieve? Sherlock, you were my best friend. Before you, I had nothing. Not a job, not a life. You gave my life meaning, and no I didn’t get that from a book. My life before you was just a dull existence.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “And now?”

John paused only to look at him before answering. “I have adventure, dangerous and ridiculous at times, but adventure nonetheless. With you, I’m never bored. With you, I feel like my life has meaning. My existence has meaning.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “Before you, it was always about my work. Nothing else. Which of course I didn’t mind since I lived for my work. But I was never satisfied; I always needed more. More cases. If I didn’t have any, my mind would spiral out of control.”

John smiled. “I’ve seen that happen plenty of times.”

Sherlock smiled back, then his face softened and he grew serious. “You help calm me when I’m at my worst. Just your mere presence is sufficient enough. With you, I don’t need anything else. I feel complete, at ease.”

“Sherlock-“

Sherlock leaned forward, taking John’s hand with both of his and placing it against his chest, just over his heart. “John, you need to know that no matter what I’ve said, I am not a machine.” He placed John’s hand palm down on his chest and held it there. He looked him in the eyes. “Do you feel that?”

John looked at his own hand, placed directly over Sherlock’s heart, then back up to Sherlock. “Its your heart,” he stated plainly.

Sherlock nodded. “Feel that irregular beating? That’s because of you. That’s what you do to me, John Watson.”

John could only stare at him, his hand still on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of Sherlock’s heart between his fingers.

“These feelings are very easy to suppress, to lie to myself and tell others I am incapable of such things. But my body betrays me, no matter what I say, the chemistry’s there. Hidden inside me but still very much present.”

John stared at Sherlock completely dumbfounded. His jaw slackened, his own heart beating in his ears. He tried to say something but words escaped him.

Sherlock gazed at him with a naked vulnerability in his eyes. John knew he was exposing himself, something Sherlock never did, and it terrified him. He let his hand travel from his chest to his neck, gripping him there.

“There’s no need to hide anymore, Sherlock,” he said softly. Sherlock’s gaze dropped and John used his other hand to slowly lift his head. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his eyes locking with Sherlock’s.

“Of course,” Sherlock said almost instantly.

“Then there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Sherlock’s hand flew up and he mimicked John, gripping the back of his neck. He leaned forward and placed his forehead on John’s, closing his eyes and sighing softly.

John closed his eyes as well. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, then, craning his neck, leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to John’s. It was soft and gentle and John lifted them both up, closing the distance between them as he stood, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s.

They embraced, both of Sherlock’s hands wrapping around John’s neck, John’s hands traveling down Sherlock’s sides and wrapping them around his waist. They stood like that, lips locked, bodies pressed together, just enjoying each other’s company, closeness, and warmth.

When they pulled away, resting their foreheads against each other’s again, they looked up at one another. They spoke silently, of nothing and everything. A smile broke out on both their faces and they leaned forward again, lips parted and wanting, until they made contact.

The first kiss was gentle and sweet; this one was harsh and desperate. Sherlock’s hands wandered this time, running them over John’s sides and back. John’s hands ran up into his hair, tugging and gripping at it experimentally. Their mouths clashed again and again; a tug there, bite here. Sherlock gasped at John’s sudden tug of his hair and John took the opportunity to grab his bottom lip and suck on it softly, causing Sherlock to stiffen, then moan softly.

John pulled away momentarily, running his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip before kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck and finally, the hollow of his collarbone. Sherlock moaned embarrassingly loud at his touch, gripping John’s waist to steady himself.

John’s hands suddenly trailed down Sherlock’s sides, stopping just above his waist and tugging loose his dress shirt. Sherlock gasped out loud as John pecked his neck while sliding his hands under his shirt, running them up his spine, then down his sides. Sherlock gripped his hips even harder, pulling him closer to him while stifling another moan. He felt his skin tingling all over, a sudden heat running up his neck and cheeks. _How could something so simple feel this intense?_

There was a sudden _pop_ , followed by another and another. Sherlock had his eyes shut when he suddenly felt a coldness strike his chest. He looked down at himself just as John was unbuttoning the last of the buttons on his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. Sherlock felt his breathing pick up, causing his now bare chest to rise and fall rapidly. He was about to ask John what was going on when he suddenly pushed him backwards and onto the couch. _When had that gotten there?_ Sherlock thought to himself while landing on his back.

John got on top of him and before Sherlock could say anything, he had pinned his arms at his sides and began kissing his neck, his lips traveling downwards, kissing his chest.

“Wait, wait,” Sherlock breathed.

John’s head came up to look at him. “Is this too much?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I don’t think I can handle it.”

John leaned forward and kissed him on the lips slowly and gently before pulling away and looking down at him. “That’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Sherlock shook his head desperately. “No, I do. Its just…”

John nodded his head. “I understand, Sherlock.” He smiled. “We can stick to this for now,” he said, leaning down again and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock suddenly sat up, taking John with him. John pulled away and looked at him with questioning eyes.  
Sherlock smirked. “Its a bit uncomfortable here, can we go lay down on your bed instead?”

John smiled warmly, got off of Sherlock and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the room.


End file.
